


To the victor...?

by kohiya



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Altaïr/Malik if you squint, Embracing one's inner avian, Fevered delusions, M/M, Malik is really hot-- oh wait
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-12
Updated: 2010-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:25:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kohiya/pseuds/kohiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Now, assassin, do you understand?"<br/> </p>
<p>Altaïr and Robert. Altaïr loses - well, Robert definitely wins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the victor...?

**Author's Note:**

> Because nothing says you love a character like writing a story like this about them! 
> 
>  
> 
>   
> Brb, going to hell.  
> 

  


Altaïr was pinned. He knew this instinctively even before his eagle keened quietly in distress, flaring its beak and violently beating its wings against the restraint. He was pinned and cold ( _naked?_ ) and the world was ominously _dark_ and even though his mind was telling him that it was okay, it was _Malik_ after all and Malik was someone to be trusted, he couldn’t quite quell the furious hammering of his chest.

“Now, assassin, do you understand?”

He had no way of answering – even if he had been more inclined to do so – not with the sudden forceful crush of his lover’s lips against his own (they simply _had_ to be Malik’s lips; they were soft and full even despite the harsh words that so often left them). But Malik was not one to call him ‘assassin’ – not any more, not after he had worked so very hard for the _Dai_ 's forgiveness – and the voice was low and harsh, a remnant of a more sinister, almost but not _quite_ buried time.

It was only when the tight grip of Malik’s hands – … _hands_? – were pinning his wrists bodily above his head _and with such force, brutal force that Malik never exerted even in his prime_ that Altaïr began to entertain the thought that something could possibly be rather, terribly wrong.

The assassin was delirious with fever  – Robert could feel the heat emanating from the younger man’s body as he leant closer to bite at tender flesh. The assassin’s back arched weakly at the contact, body shamelessly seeking further physical gratification even as his eyes seemed to clear somewhat from their hazed golden state and realisation began to dawn.

Fevered and wounded though the other was, Robert found himself struggling to pin the angered assassin beneath him. A sharp, forceful backhand across the face and a painful clench between the other’s legs halted the assassin’s movements long enough for Robert to shift, soon regaining the upper hand.

The assassin’s breath was coming in short, sharp gasps – he was trembling, too, Robert noted, as though the irregularity of breath was all the weakness he would allow of himself and it was straining him to do so. Quelling signs of a further struggle with one hand moving to apply light but warning pressure upon the assassin’s throat (the assassin stilled almost entirely at this, such a man would all too easily understand the frailty of human life), his other hand he offered to the assassin, a wordless invitation to part his lips. The assassin turned his head, defiant to the last. Robert smiled to himself at this, amusement quirking at his lips. He would not be the one inconvenienced by the assassin’s arrogance.

Fingers. Harsh, demanding, _impatient_ fingers, as painfully foreign as the words the Templar was muttering above his head. He struggled only to have de Sable apply pressure to his throat and both his hands were attempting to pry the Templar’s one hand away and it should have been easy but it _wasn’t_ and those grey spots dancing around were really not a good thing at all and he couldn’t die, not here, not now, not like _this_ … 

de Sable’s fingers suddenly brushed against _something_ and he gasped; he didn’t know what it was but it felt good, _so_ good, and suddenly those shuddering gasps Malik used to utter when he angled his hips _just so_ made perfect sense if this was even a remotely similar thing—

All too soon the sensation was gone and his body was lamenting the loss(the traitor that it was). The Templar leant closer – close enough for him to smell the intoxicating combination of blood, wine, and perspiration – still murmuring words he recognised as foreign but lacked the knowledge to decipher (he could hear the lust though, harsh and foreboding and he couldn’t understand _why_ ). And now, now it was the Templar – so much bigger and rougher than fingers – and it _hurt_ and his fingers were scrabbling for footing now, reaching blindly for anything he could seize to stop himself from falling. _Malik,_ he thought, and almost immediately banished it – Malik wasn’t here and for that he should be thankful, Malik was safe and well and _really Altaïr, after your mistakes how **well** could he be_

The pain was harsher now as the man above him moved and he could hear the Templar’s breathing – uneven, heavy _–_ above him and suddenly the pain turned to blinding pleasure with a sharp snap of the Templar’s hips.

_—and suddenly all that seemed to matter right now was the need, the want, the lust—_

He found himself clutching again for some sort of threshold, blindly, _desperately_ , and this time the first thing he seized were the Templar’s arms.

_You can’t hold out much longer. You should just accept it._

_—Malik._

Robert's smile was broad as the assassin found his peak, from both the sweetness of his success and the delicious - pained, wanton, _ecstatic_ \- moan said climax wrought. And, _though, perhaps,_ Robert mused, _perhaps you simply heard it wrong,_ but he was _sure_ that he heard the assassin moan a name both foreign and achingly familiar as he came – _it was a name_ , Robert thought, _a name that conjured up dreams of bloodshed and chaos and cries upon death throes for people that could do nothing._

And Altaïr knew now – _now, you say,_ a snide part of his mind scoffed (sounding awfully like Malik, he thought) _as though it wasn’t obvious before_ – that he had failed _again, you’ve failed again, first Kadar and then Malik and now, **now** _ and despite what everybody had been saying about him he really hadn't changed that much at all because if he had changed surely – _surely_ –he should have been able to defeat this cursed man.

He could still see them all (still, even when logic told him that he could see nothing) – and in his state he wasn’t sure whether it was the Sight, some sort of hallucination or something else entirely – Kadar _my brother would tell me nothing, except that I should consider myself lucky to be invited_ and Malik _Altaïr, Kadar is **dead!**_ and Robert de Sable too, his sneer of _off you go now, assassin dog, run back to your master…_

There was pain now _(still)_ , beyond the dull aches and battle-weary bones, but it wasn’t a pain he could touch on – not like the ache of a punch or the kiss of a blade, the familiar pains of the trade in which he lived. There was a ghosting touch on his face, too, (fingers, fingers that felt too soft and smooth to belong to the Templar, so then _who_ ) and the words of _I forgive you_ couldn’t possibly be real because de Sable had no reason to utter such words but he could still hear the words and _see,_ see that shy smile and he reached out his hand _because if you can reach him then perhaps this time you can save him, this time_ —

From somewhere within him, his eagle still keened.


End file.
